


Pray

by orphan_account



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Gen, Heat Stroke, Hurt Aaron Burr, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Major Character Injury, Slow Burn, Survival, Vomiting, tweedle dee and tweedle dipshit get their asses handed to them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 15:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When scouts begin to go missing from their camp, Hamilton, Burr, and Laurens take matters into their own hands. However, Aaron quickly realizes that it was the worst decision he has ever made. When his and Hamilton's lives hang in the balance, he is suddenly acutely aware of how much Hamilton means to Washington, to Laurens, to the war, to America, and to him.NOTE: On a BRIEF hiatus for Whumptober 2019! Be back very soon!





	Pray

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any rights to the work this is based off of; all belong to Lin-Manuel Miranda and...probably a museum...somewhere...

Only one more week.

Aaron only had to spend one more week in Washington’s camp, yet even that one week seemed insurmountably unbearable.

The stench of sweat and sick made Aaron’s stomach roll. The boiling summer temperatures stoked disgusting odors, squeezing the last semblances of serenity from his grasp. He shifted in his seat and adjusted his shirt, clearing his throat for what seemed to be the umpteenth time that hour. Beads of sweat trailed down his back, between his shoulder blades, hot pinpricks pooling on his forehead despite his dry tongue. With a sigh, he set his quill next to his inkwell and slowly drooped over his desk. His limbs jittered in their sockets, unused yet still tense. Insects wailed in the dry weeds surrounding the camp, drowning out the rumbling chatter of soldiers, the grumble in Aaron’s stomach.

His usual diligence was amiss, devoured by the blistering humidity, Aaron guessed. Enclosed by the thick cloth of the tent, with not so much as a breeze to pass through, Aaron had found his cheeks flushed, his lips chapped, his gaze waning in and out of focus on the maps and letters the general entrusted him with. The script had mushed together into an incoherent mess, and the more Aaron trained himself on the mapping, the more he realized he couldn’t make sense of anything despite it all being so clear only a few hours beforehand. Perhaps he needed a drink of water? Or perhaps he needed a real meal, or a true night’s rest? One could only function so eloquently on a foot soldiers’ rations, no?

Aaron closed his eyes slowly, humming as he rolled his head on the wood, relishing in the slight coolness it offered. Distantly, he wondered what his dearest mother and father would think of their son. Certainly, his estranged uncle Edwards would call him mad, for what healthy twenty-two-year-old gentleman would choose such abhorrent conditions over that of a beautiful woman?

Admittedly, Aaron had not foreseen such an uncomfortable outcome upon first entering into Washington’s company. He had planned everything methodically, to the point: he would earn an education, climbing his ranks with vigil yet patience and, when the time came, he would settle into a respectable law firm and earn not only insurmountable amounts of wealth and fame, but would also win him a beautiful woman, plentiful children, and endless rolling hills of green land.

He had assumed Washington would fast-track him towards his victory, avoiding the pitfalls of endless sleepless nights and tiring days as he would ultimately take to the people to try and convince them of his greatness. A Burr was no freeloader, but Aaron wasn’t a fool, either. He wasn’t exactly envious of the men that spoke loud and ate dirt for their openness. He didn’t mind the gentler stream, the slower route, the one that would assure him a smooth victory. And, at the time, Washington seemed to be offering such route.

However, Aaron was wrong. His plan to become an ever-studious aide-de-camp, and a respected gentlemen among the ranks, seemed to fail miserably, as Washington obviously preferred the yipping of Alexander Hamilton to the bark of Aaron Burr. Additionally, as a mere part-time assistant to the aide-de-camps as a mapper, Aaron was steered away from the finer rations. “They are for the men who are here long-term,” Washington had explained. “Please forgive me, but congress will offer us no more than what we have here.” Hence, the heat, the soldier’s rations, the dry lips and the overwhelming exhaustion.

Perhaps he had chosen the wrong career track…

Aaron heaved himself upright, his shoulders popping. He winced, stood, and made to find food for the evening, his thoughts transfixed on three things: a drink, a meal, and rest.

As he moved his hand under the flap of his tent, the fabric was ripped from his grip and he came face-to-face with Hamilton. Hamilton - dressed down in cooler clothes; smart man - blinked owlishly up at Aaron. It were as if the aide were surprised to see Aaron in his own tent. 

A beat passed.

Aaron opened his mouth.

“Mister Burr, sir!” Hamilton squawked. Aaron couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Hamilton hadn’t seemed to notice. “I require your assistance! See, there’s this thing, and the general will not listen to the proposal I have despite the fact that Laurens has, thankfully, found it to be equally...”

Aaron zoned out.

Hamilton continued to talk, but Aaron found himself somehow preoccupied with the sheen of sweat across Hamilton’s dark hairline. He watched at the way the strands of hair popped out of their loose tie, frizzy with the heat, curling from the sweat. His thoughts went blank, a fuzz of black, as Hamilton droned on, his mouth moving, eyes widening, brows jumping with every strange expression he made. Ever since he had met the man, he had known him for his sharp tongue, his childish wit, and his knack for making faces that Aaron found to be, at most, superfluous and, in the least, exhausting to pull. He wondered if it tired Hamilton as much as it tired Aaron to merely watch, let alone perform.

Hamilton held his gaze. His mouth had stopped moving. Aaron blinked hard. His muddled brain struggled to clip along. Hamilton mumbled, “Burr, did you hear--?”

“I beg your pardon?” Aaron blurted out.

Hamilton’s shoulders tensed. His mouth twisted into a frown. “When was the last meal you had? Are you all right?”

“Of course. I am well.” Aaron’s voice sounded muddled, under the waves of high tide, even to himself. He cleared his throat. He would be damned if Alexander Hamilton not only out-worked him, but also had outshined the Burr etiquette as well. “Please, repeat what you just said a moment ago, mister Hamilton.”

But Hamilton’s hesitation stretched on as he leaned closer, too close, and asked, “When was the last time you slept--?”

“Alexander!”

Hamilton whipped around. Lauren's approached them in a jog, his tall stature sticking out amongst the slouching soldiers around him. Aaron huffed, feeling faint from just  _ watching  _ Lauren's running in such formidable heat. He wiped his fingers across his forehead, frowning as they came back wet and shaking.

Hamilton’s voice glowed as he chirped, “Laurens! You followed me?”

Laurens stopped next to Hamilton, perching his arm to rest on his fellow aide-de-camp's slender shoulder. “Well, of course. There is no doubt you would want to stay in the room with general Washington alone, but I? No, Heavens no! He is far too menacing for me!”

“An exaggeration! The general looks no more menacing than Burr does now!” Aaron straightened up a bit. Hamilton turned back to Aaron. “So, will you be accompanying us, sir?”

Aaron sighed. While it seemed as if Hamilton had forgotten his earlier inquisition on Aaron’s health, Aaron knew far too well. The narrowed stare, the stiff stance, as if the man were focusing all his energy on him. Hamilton was known for fixating, for obsessively digging until his task was done, and then he shift to the next, and the next, never resting, never relenting. There were rumors that Hamilton would write until he fell unconscious, would work himself into fevers, would talk until he broke into a fit of coughing, and Aaron would never had believe it if he had never seen it for himself, for what man could be so committed that he would refuse to  _ eat? _

Indeed, Hamilton was searching Aaron. He was digging through him, scanning him over with precision, as if he were one of Hamilton’s letters, clear, legible, with all the answers laid before him. He wanted to find the answer for himself, the stubborn bastard, and Aaron refused to fuel his fire.

Aaron forced his shoulders to square off. He held his chin high. Hamilton’s eyebrows perked up a bit. “Of course.” Aaron said. He folded his shaky hands behind his back. “Lead the way.”

Laurens clapped Hamilton on the back, and Hamilton seemed shocked, gaze jumping as he turned to Laurens. “Hear, hear, Alexander? Perhaps now the general will listen?”

“Perhaps…” Hamilton turned in-time with Laurens, the men walking ahead, leading Aaron down the dusty paths towards Washington’s private tent. The sun had already began to sink into the horizon line, the surrounding forest a shadowy backdrop in an otherwise moderately-lit field. Stars dotted the purple sky, and clouds shuffled closer from the west, and yet, the heat was unrelenting. If he were being honest with himself, Aaron felt dizzy, the mere prospect of walking across camp fogging his head. He nearly tripped over a stretched-out arm here, a kicked-out leg there as the soldiers slumped across the dirt and grass, trying to escape the heat as well. Some panted like mutts, others barely moved.

Morale was pitiful everywhere, it seemed.

Aaron wouldn’t have known: it had been days since he had properly stepped out of his tent to stretch his legs, to breathe in fresh air, no matter how stifling the humidity may be. He had to silently thank Hamilton for his sudden appearance and ultimate interruption, for if he hadn’t called Aaron to follow, he would have likely finished his meager tasks and then wilted in his tent for another sleepless night.

Aaron stared ahead, forcing one strong foot in front of the other, keeping his head high, higher, making sure his façade didn’t falter because there was not a single doubt in Aaron’s mind that Hamilton was listening, was watching from the corner of his eye, still searching Aaron for clues, as if he were goddamn puzzle. What was it that inclined Hamilton so? What pushed him beyond the limits of everyone around him? Both he and Hamilton had struggled with being orphaned, so why was it that Hamilton rocketed towards the sky, his aspirations glistening and worries gleaned from his mind, while Aaron struggled, wading through knee-deep mud?

As Aaron righted himself back into reality, he quickly found himself zoning out once more. He stared at the small space between Hamilton and Laurens, where they were joined by Laurens’ draped arm and Hamilton’s flintlock jutting from its holster. The color there swam, becoming a fuzzy shade of brown and green as the grass bled into the dirt paths of the camp, mottling together. Aaron wiped his brow again, closing his eyes for a moment and nearly pitching forward.

Hamilton slowly pulled away from Laurens and pulled back the flap of a large, off-white oval-shaped tent. He gestured for Laurens and Aaron to step inside, his eyes on Aaron’s back the entire time. Aaron licked his dry lips, tasting blood from where the bottom one had split down the center. His eyes strained to adjust to the candlelit darkness, the flames providing enough light to illuminate the tables, but not so much as to overheat the already warm tent.

Near the center, Washington leaned over a thick, wooden desk, his fingers scrolling over multiple maps and notes held by paperweights and candle plates. At the sound of the tent flap flopping closed, he turned, expression twisting from relaxed to riled as he snapped, “For the final time, mister Hamilton, I will  _ not-- _ ”

“But sir! Hear me out!” Hamilton began. Aaron blanched at the man’s audacity to interrupt. “Please, have mister Burr look over my mapping. If I am correct, then I am the  _ best  _ candidate to--”

Washington waved towards Aaron. “You are dismissed, mister Burr.”

Aaron flew a clumsy salute the general’s way. He moved for the exit.

Hamilton spat, “ _ Sir! _ Please!”

“Alexander,” Washington took a calculated breath. “As we have previously discussed, I will not be sacrificing my primary aide-de-camp to fetch two scouts. It would be foolish and you know it.”

“And as we have discussed,” Hamilton clapped Laurens on the shoulder. “You have Laurens as backup! I’m the fastest rider we have!”

Laurens nodded.

Washington scoffed. “I think not.” He said, quieter, “While I admire your writings, mister Laurens - for they are sophisticated and tactically intelligent so much as your reputation says - you are no Alexander Hamilton.”

“Sir! The scouts need us, those men  _ need _ \--”

“And Alexander,” Washington jabbed at Hamilton. Hamilton’s mouth snapped shut. “You are piss-poor when it comes to navigation, as we have discussed, no?”

Hamilton huffed like a child. “I can navigate…”

“You  _ have _ been known to get lost from time to time, Alexander…” Laurens bowed his head. Hamilton’s face darkened even in the dimness of the tent.

Hamilton whipped, “Shut up!” He turned back to Washington, voice proud. “Nevertheless, I knew you would say that, sir, which is why,” He rounded towards Aaron, a hand flat on his back. “I have brought mister Burr along.” Hamilton grinned wide. “It  _ is  _ true that mister Burr has been studying the terrain of the surrounding area, no? Then perhaps  _ he _ could point me in the right direction, so I am able to ride fast and find our men!”

“Hamilton--” Aaron started.

Washington groaned, “Alexander--”

“Laurens could wait for me at the edge of camp! I would be no more than an hour! And with one horse, it’ll be not only fast but resourceful as well!”

Washington’s eyes dulled. “Alexander, I understand what you are saying…”

Hamilton smiled, eyes glittering. “So then you agree that this must be the best course of action--!”

“I have done no such thing.” Washington said. Hamilton’s hand slipped off Aaron’s back. “You forget I have said, time and time again, that I am not about to surrender my primary aide-de-camp to the British. You will stay put. Here. In this camp.”

Aaron straightened, then. He had been so busy mapping for so long, that he realized he hadn’t been updated on their situation at all. “Pardon me, general,” he said. “But is this camp in imminent danger? I thought the British were still to the south.”

Hamilton dropped to a nearby stool, dropping his chin to his closed fist. Laurens hung his head once again as the air of the tent shifted. Washington blinked down at his feet solemnly. “Six of our scouts have gone missing to the west; three separate groups with three separate orders, all within the span of three days. We know not what time, nor where they stood, when they disappeared.”

“We could be found out, sir.” Hamilton started, quiet. “I believe sending one aide-de-camp with necessary experience is far more prudent than another two officers who will walk blindly to their deaths.”

Washington stiffened at the spine, frowning deeply. Hamilton’s gaze fell. “Or, perhaps, sending another in my stead. Just...not another innocent man, sir.”

“Who do you suggest, mister Hamilton?” Washington folded his arms across his chest.

Hamilton shrugged loosely. “I’m...not sure…”

The general planted his hands on his hips and, with an assuring tone, said, “When dawn breaks, I will send Laurens and Burr to search for the scouts.” He glanced between Aaron and Laurens. Aaron’s stomach plummeted. “There is simply not enough daylight for such operations, even if it were by horse. You may be fast, Alexander, but you are not faster than the tide of night.”

That  _ son of a bitch _ . Hamilton’s expression slackened as he glanced between Aaron and Washington, eyes searching inside himself, for once, as he stuttered, “Mister Burr? Sir, you cannot be serious! He is in no condition--”

“I understand, sir.” Aaron saluted weakly. He glowered down at Hamilton, willing the man to shut up for once in his life. Hamilton seemed to understand, for he closed his mouth and turned away. “I will do my duty as soon as dawn breaks.”

“It was not my intention to involve mister Burr, sir…” Hamilton’s voice ghosted through the room as Washington hummed quietly, digesting the comment.

“It is for the best.” Washington said. “As you have said, Hamilton; Burr knows the layout of this land better than most. He should be on-horse, not you. Laurens will accompany him: a man with experience, as you suggested.” The general settled his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, only briefly, before continuing, “You were correct to suggest mister Burr to the task.” Washington’s eyes flicked up to Aaron. “And I presume you are fit enough for the task at hand? I will send someone to give you double your rations this evening.”

Aaron’s stomach twisted. “I am well, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Laurens stepped forward cautiously. “With all due respect, sir, if the red coats have killed or captured our scouts and are making for the camp, we will have no way of knowing. It may be an ambush by daylight.” He glanced to Hamilton and Aaron expectantly, arms out.

Washington opened his mouth. Hamilton leaned forward to speak. 

“Not quite…” Aaron muttered. When all heads turned to him, he gaped like a beached fish. His face burned hotter than the boiling outdoors, and he awkwardly cleared his throat of the dust. He waited for his general to speak, but Washington gestured him to continue. “There are...dozens of drop-offs in the surrounding area, wherein the ground gives way to drops as tall as a house. Without proper light, it would be impossible to navigate smoothly. Likely more so with an army. Hence, I believe that...it is unlikely we will encounter an ambush by daybreak.”

Aaron cleared his raw throat once more, and said, “Of course, general, if you disagree--”

Washington shook his head. “That is precisely what I was to say, mister Burr. Well done with your map studies.” Aaron bowed his head, and Washington continued, “The British would be foolish to traverse these forests at night, mister Laurens. I placed us in this God-forsaken field for a reason, and ‘twas not for the star gazing.”

Hamilton breathed heavily. “So we’re doing nothing…”

“We are biding our time carefully.” Washington said. “And biding our resources as well. Congress is not as forgiving as you may believe.”

Under his breath, Hamilton cursed, but it sounded more like a scowl to Aaron’s muddled ears. His heart pattered under his sweat-slick skin, hammering, rocking him with every beat. “Well, if that be the case,” Aaron pulled open the tent flap. “Then I will be retiring for the evening. I will…have a long day tomorrow. General Washington, gentlemen.” He saluted to see himself out.

Hamilton’s eyes scoured the maps momentarily before he popped to his feet. He said, loudly, as if were a sudden thought, “Indeed! I will be in the dining tent; I would sure enjoy some salted meats right about now! Laurens?” His eyes widened a bit as he glared sideways at Laurens.

“Uh…sure. Yes. That would be...quite nice.” The other aide skipped up to where Hamilton was waiting.

Washington nodded curtly. “Good evening, then, gentlemen. And mister Burr,” He breathed in heavily. “Thank you for taking up this request so suddenly. You're a good man. I will be sure to notify congress of your deeds here, for I know your conditions are far from satisfactory.”

Aaron jutted his chin up quick. He then slipped outside. Sagging in the stuffy night air, he struggled to breathe. He was sure that, with such heat, another sleepless night was in order. At least he was getting double the rations.

The flap of the tent rustled behind him. Before Hamilton could rush outside and get his grubby hands on him once more, Aaron surged forward into the campsite, searching for any morsel of food he could find. He walked as fast as his aching body would carry him, his legs wobbling under every step, hands still jittery at his sides. How would he ride a horse tomorrow morning if he couldn’t even  _ walk? _

Distantly, he heard Laurens snickering about their upcoming meal - “…oh, and did you hear they managed to scrounge up fresh vegetables from the local farmers, Alexander? They’re making a stew out of it, but I much prefer…” - and Aaron’s stomach squeezed so tight it felt as if he were punched in the gut.

He could follow them.

Aaron pivoted sharply. He slipped between two tents. Sitting in the shadows, he watched as Laurens and Hamilton walked by, linked together as always.

He could always follow them.

Aaron was not raised to be a thief nor a peddler. He was a gentleman. But he was a  _ starving _ gentleman, surviving on nothing but soldier’s rations. It was all Washington could give him, he knew, but alas...

He could always follow them to the tent.

Aaron was no aide-de-camp, he knew, and Washington’s dining tent was reserved for his right hand men and the upmost important of people there for the long-term. Aaron Burr was no aide-de-camp, but he was not a meager foot soldier, either. He deserved a proper meal, deserved proper food along with Laurens and Hamilton, the slimy bastards. He was a gentlemen quarantined to his tent with soldiers' rations and nothing more for three weeks total and he was starving and the way Laurens talked about the food, the abundance of meats and vegetables and breads and stews and drinks and everything Aaron desperately wanted and, before he realized it, he was trailing behind them, ever quiet. He thought his heartbeat was going to give him away.

It was reprimandable to eat from the general’s tent.

It was reprimandable and shameful, no less embarrassing than stealing from right under Washington’s nose while he watched. A dog had more pride, Aaron knew. But if he was to ride in search of some pitiful scouts for hours tomorrow, he would be well fed and well rested god damnit. Soldier’s rations - even doubled - wouldn’t satiate his starvation. Washington needn’t know if Aaron were smart and fast and, so, he moved in the shadows behind the aides. The fools: they blundered forward, Hamilton now talking about their work in the southern colonies, and Laurens listening intently, not even knowing Aaron was there.

He tuned out their babbling and focused on staying low.

Laurens and Hamilton turned in sync and disappeared inside another large, oval-shaped tent in the center of the campsite, near Washington’s personal tent. Night shaded the grass black, the trees grey, bathing his surroundings in hues of dark blues, only lightening when a man with a lantern bumbled by him. Aaron sunk lower, obscuring himself into the silence of the shadows as he took a deep breath.

His mouth watered. Saliva pooled on his tongue. The smells were mesmerizing, bleeding out from the tent, oozing around him: spices and herbs and salts and juices. Aaron choked on his spit. His stomach wrenched. He clenched his fists.

“Mister Burr, sir!” Hamilton materialized before him. Right in front of him. Directly.

Aaron’s nerves jumped. “Hamilton...when did you--?”

“Care to join us?” He pulled back the opening of the tent, the warm light illuminating the side of his face in smooth gold. His dark eyes bore through Aaron’s, studying, analyzing, assessing like they always did. “There’s quite a lot of food. Surely, you would enjoy some?”

Aaron wheezed.

If he disagreed, he would retire a starving man but with his dignity in-tact. Tomorrow would be dreadful, and he may die of starvation…

But if he agreed, he would eat a feast that he hadn’t had since leaving the city. He would dine like a true gentleman, and with a full belly, he may actually sleep.

Hamilton’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Or, perhaps you’d care to retire? Surely, though, you came all this way to the general’s dining tent for a reason, no?”

That rat-of-a-man. Hamilton’s mouth curled at the corner. Aaron wanted to bite his fist so as to spare the man from getting his teeth knocked into his throat. A Burr was not a brawler, no, he was a scholar above all but by the good graces of the Lord above if Aaron did not want to  _ floor _ Hamilton in that moment.

“I would...appreciate a meal.” Aaron said shakily. “If you would be so kind.”

Hamilton’s expression softened. His smile glistened with the light of the candles. “Of course! Come, come in.” He disappeared inside the tent, saying, “Laurens! Prepare mister Burr a plate, if you would!”

Aaron followed after him slowly. He deflated at the sights and the smells, the warmth that radiated from the foods but not like the sickly warmth of the summer’s heat, but instead, a smooth, caressing glow as hot butter slid between the cracks of freshly-baked loafs of bread, as sizzling racks of ribs and steaks were pulled from the ovens, sweet with marinates, smoky from the fires, as glossy vegetables simmered in yellow-brown broth, as caramelized carrots and mushrooms and garlic-onions overflowed in a bowl at the center of the table.

“Here you are.” Hamilton turned to him, a platter of food in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. Aaron took them quickly, bowing his head before dropping into the seat adjacent to Laurens and digging in. Hamilton leaned over, mumbling something about, “stew, as well, perhaps” but Aaron could hardly hear over his own fluttering heart as his teeth ripped into the soft rye bread squished between his trembling fingers.

“How rude of congress, mister Burr. To appoint someone of your stature the status of a soldier, earning you nothing more than, what...a bread roll and salted fish a day?” Hamilton clicked his tongue. “Disgraceful.”

Laurens nodded slowly. “Truly, a disgrace to be had.”

Aaron wasn’t stupid. Between his large mouthfuls of food, he snapped, “What is your intention, Hamilton?”

Hamilton, for a moment, appeared genuinely shocked. His mouth dropped open and he scoffed loudly, smiling like a child. “Why must I be transpiring behind your back, mister Burr? Can a friend not treat his own with civility?”

Aaron repeated, “State your intention, sir. I am not fond of mind games.”

“No?” Laurens laughed. “Hypocritical, seeing as how all you seem to do is sit back and scheme.”

Hamilton chuckled lightly. He turned back to Aaron, but his eyes showed no malice, no grievances. He rested his arm on the tabletop and said, “I truly was concerned for you, mister Burr. You looked about ready to collapse in Washington’s tent. And, since it is my fault you will be riding tomorrow, I thought it best to feed you well. Had I not brought you to Washington, he would have not ordered you so…”

Aaron chewed slower.

Hamilton sighed. “…However, this  _ is  _ a bribe, you are correct. Nevertheless, I  _ do _ have one small request to be made. It will benefit you greatly, I’m sure.”

Aaron glanced between him and Laurens. “Which is…?”

After exchanging a glance with Laurens, Hamilton said, “I am going to find those men. Tonight. Right now. And you are going to show me the fastest route.”

**Author's Note:**

> Can y'all tell I was hungry while writing this. Shit...
> 
> I am (very loosely) basing this off of the Battle of Monmouth. I'm using the power of Google and APUSH that I took like...four years ago in junior year high school to get me through this...
> 
> Also, I don't have an update schedule...just uhhh check in every week, maybe two weeks. And I'm not sure how many chapters I want this to be. Assume...3? Maybe 4? At most, 5? Maybe? Ehhh?
> 
> Oh! And I don't have a beta for this, big sad, but I scanned through it pretty quickly and I don't think there are any issues? Let me know if you want to be a beta for some things in the future, all Hamilton-related. I'm thinking some one-shots, Alexander-centric, probably whump-y in some form or another. Just comment below if you're interested!


End file.
